Coming Home
by JointheMadness
Summary: Merlin has waited over a thousand years for his king. Now Arthur is finally coming home.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! Thank you for clicking on this story. This is my first reincarnation fic, so I hope I do it justice. Please feel free to leave a review. Comments, questions, criticism, etc. are always welcome. I don't know how often I'll update, but I'll try my best. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. **

"…suddenly a great crash resounded around the cabin. The passengers sprang from their beds, throwing on their dressing gowns as they ran up to the deck, wondering what on earth was going on. Little did they know-" Merlin was interrupted mid-sentence by the ring of the school bell. There was a collective moan of disappointment from his class.

"Now don't you worry," Merlin said kindly, "we'll resume our discussion of the _Titanic_ next lesson. I hope you all have a good weekend." He watched as his students streamed out of his classroom, eager to start the weekend now that their school day was over. One boy, Charlie, approached Merlin's desk as he went out.

"That was a brilliant lesson, Professor Morgan." Charlie said a bit nervously. "It's like you were really there. I've never enjoyed a history lesson more. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. Erm… I hope you have a good weekend too." And with that Charlie scurried out the door, shutting it behind him.

Merlin chuckled to himself. Charlie was a shy boy who rarely volunteered in class. Merlin knew he was intelligent; he got top marks on all his quizzes. But he had no confidence in himself and was too afraid of his classmates' ridicule to reveal his genius. He reminded Merlin a bit of himself when he first came to Camelot all those years ago.

Merlin sat down heavily in his chair. His students could never know that he actually _had_ been on the _Titanic_. Over the centuries Merlin had gotten caught in many such occasions. He had been there at the fall of Camelot. He had watched the Roman Empire rise, spread, and fall. He had seen the ravages of the Black Death and witnessed the creations of the Renaissance. And yes, he had had the misfortune to book a ticket on the fateful maiden voyage of the "unsinkable" ship. There was no end to his stories. His unique teaching style had earned him the admiration and love of all his students, a very unusual thing among history professors. His lessons came from experience, not from a stuffy old textbook (which Merlin had found quite often to be often incorrect).

But he had lived far too long. Merlin had stopped counting the years when he reached 1400. He had been waiting longer than that, but it pained him too much to think about how much longer. When he signed up for this whole "return of the Once and Future King" business, he had no idea it would entail more than a millennium of waiting. Arthur still had not returned and Merlin was so close to giving up…

Merlin shook himself and stood up. There was no use thinking like that. Brooding wasn't going to help anything and he had been in such a good mood. No need to spoil it. He packed up his briefcase, put on his coat and wound his favorite green scarf around his neck. Over the years Merlin's wardrobe had changed with the times, but the one thing that hadn't changed was his fondness for neckwear. This time he had traded his neckerchiefs for more fashionable scarves. They seemed to be back in style now, much to Merlin's delight.

He walked out of his classroom, locking the door behind him. His gazed lingered on the sign next the door: _Professor Colin Morgan, History. _Merlin sighed. It had been so long since he had used his real name. But he couldn't go around calling himself "Merlin" in this day and age. He would be laughed at, for one. "Why aren't you wearing your pointy hat?" "Aren't you supposed to be old?" "Where's your owl?" No one took the Arthurian legends seriously anymore. That's all they were now: legends.

Despite the dark cloud that threatened his good mood, Merlin walked outside to his car, his breath forming puffs of steam in the chilly December air. He was determined to go home, relax, and turn his thoughts toward lighter subjects. Perhaps he would work on his writing some more or crack open one of the more absurd books on King Arthur he had in his library, just so he could laugh at the inaccuracies.

As he drove home Merlin reminisced on the first time he had seen the convoluted family tree that supposedly had survived the test of time. He had laughed himself silly until tears came to his eyes. Gwaine and Agravaine the sons of Morgause? Merlin had never heard anything funnier in his entire life. But the funniest (and perhaps most disturbing) one he had found listed Mordred as the son of Arthur and Morgause. If only his friends could see what history thought of them. Arthur would probably burst a blood vessel. Gwen would blush something furious. Gwaine would relentlessly tease them all. With this happy memory still in his mind, Merlin pulled up to his cottage by the Lake of Avalon.

For whatever reason, be it fate, magic, or some innate desire to preserve nature, as humanity spread out around the country, the lake had remained untouched and pristine. Merlin had chosen to make his home on its banks, just in case a certain prat decided to make an appearance. Merlin had built his house himself after he left Camelot for good, and had fixed it up and updated it as the centuries progressed. No matter how far away he strayed, or long he was gone, Merlin would always return to his house on the lake. It held a special meaning for him. Not only was it the final resting place of his king, but it also held the bodies of his first and only love, Freya, and one of his best friends, Lancelot. There was no way in hell that Merlin was leaving this lake.

He kept suspicion at bay by constantly changing his appearance and "aging" as time dictated before he switched forms again. Sometimes he appeared in the wizened old form he had taken as Emrys, but now he chose to keep the same look he had sported as a young man in Camelot, though his hair was a bit shorter and his face leaner. He found that this form suited him best.

His cottage had been warded to keep out curious neighbors and any unfriendly magic, though he hadn't been attacked in many, many years. Here he could use his magic freely without fear of being caught. He unlocked the door with a flash of his eyes and crossed the threshold. Finally, he was home.

As he entered, he hung his coat and scarf on the pegs by the door, and then made a beeline for the kitchen. He needed some tea. As he puttered about, going through the motions of preparing the drink, he thought about how out of all the drinks he had tried throughout his travels, nothing could compare to a good cup of tea. Mug in hand, Merlin made his way to the living room where he settled himself on the couch with a small sigh of contentment.

He was immediately assaulted by a streak of black fur. "Hello there, Hecate. Did you miss me?" Merlin cooed, gathering the black kitten in his arms and stroking her under the chin. The kitten purred in delight and snuggled up against his chest. Merlin knew he was only furthering the stereotype that all those who practiced magic had familiars, and defying the story that said Merlin's familiar took the form of an owl. But owls were impractical to keep in a modern setting, and Merlin was just a sucker for Hecate's cute little ears.

Hecate was always there to alleviate the loneliness that permeated Merlin's everyday life. He had found her abandoned in an alley outside the school and kept her ever since. Though he not yet been successful in communicating telepathically with her, she still seemed to know exactly how he was feeling at any given moment.

When he finished his tea, Merlin set down Hecate and made his way upstairs to his study. From the outside, Merlin's home looked like a small, one-story stone cottage. Nothing fancy, nothing that would draw any attention. But Merlin had used an expansion spell to give his house limitless room without altering the outward appearance. He could add or remove rooms and floors whenever he wished. He liked to say that his home was "bigger on the inside".

Merlin's study was one of his favorite rooms in the house. It was just the right size, wood paneled and lit by a plethora of floating candles that cast a golden glow throughout the room. It contained a writing desk, some bookshelves, an antique globe, and an old wooden chest shoved in one corner. It was here that Merlin spent a good portion of his free time, writing and researching. Merlin had written a good many books. Some were accounts of his travels, some were about Arthur and Camelot, others were anthologies on magic. He published some of the ones on Arthur under pennames, but they never seemed to receive as much acclaim as the largely erroneous books on Arthurian legend.

Sometimes he wrote letters to Arthur, telling everything about his magic, about what he had done for Arthur. Everything he had never gotten to tell Arthur in person. Other times he wrote about what he had been through while awaiting Arthur's return. He knew that Arthur would probably never read them, but sometimes they helped anyway. He put them all in a box in the very bottom drawer of his desk, hidden away behind stacks of papers and piles of other junk.

Tonight he was working on a medical dictionary, classifying and illustrating different herbs and their uses in medicine. Gaius would have been so proud. He worked relentlessly until he noticed that the candles had burned down to nubs. Merlin looked at his watch. It was already several hours past dinnertime. Merlin often forgot to eat or sleep when he was working, much as he had done when he had been Arthur's manservant.

He made his way downstairs to the kitchen once more, reaching down to give Hecate a pat on the head as she trailed after him. He made himself a quick sandwich, dropping bits of cheese for Hecate. As he ate, he walked back to the living room, grabbed a book off a side table, and began to flip through it, correcting it out loud to Hecate.

"No, no, no…Napolean was much taller than that." "Oh, for goodness' sake. I did not turn a Roman legion to stone! The Carnac stones were an earthquake detector, obviously." "Whoops. Looks like someone found that book I gave to Roger Bacon. They're calling it the Voynich Manuscript now? Well, no wonder they can't translate it, it's in the tongue of the Old Religion." After about an hour of this, Hecate was asleep on the rug by the hearth and Merlin himself was yawning. It had been a very taxing week and it was about time he went to bed.

Carrying Hecate upstairs, he deposited her unceremoniously onto his bed and went into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, Merlin looked at himself in the mirror and met his own piercing blue gaze. Suddenly a shiver passed over him. He felt the magic of the world ripple, then surge like an ocean wave. He gripped the countertop as his head spun, dizzy from the influx of magic. But as quickly as the moment came, it was gone. Merlin knew something was not right; he was getting one of his signature "funny feelings". Something was coming, something big enough to change the world's balance of magic. His mind was too tired to speculate on what this could mean. Merlin decided that he could deal with it in the morning, then slipped into bed, curled one arm around Hecate and let sleep claim him. His dreams were filled of dragons and kings, lakes and swords, but he would not remember any of them upon waking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! Every single review made my day. I hope you like this chapter. I'm starting to get the feeling I'll be updating once a week, but I occasionally might update more or less than that, depending on my schedule. Let me know what you think of this story. What do you think is going to happen next? What do you **_**want**_** to happen next? What do you like about it? What do you dislike? Why am I asking so many questions? **

**Anyway, I hope you all have a lovely evening, and good luck to everyone who has final exams coming up. **

The next day dawned cold and clear. Merlin was woken partially by the shafts of sunlight spilling through his window and partially by the insistent mewling of Hecate in his ear. He got up, stretched, and shuffled downstairs to start his usual morning routine. Coffee, make breakfast, feed scraps to Hecate, actually feed Hecate, shower, dress. But as he performed each rote action, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something very important.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon, as he was out gathering the garbage that often was strewn along the sides of the road that circled the lake that he remembered. Last night. The shift in the fabric of the world. Something was coming, something big.

Merlin had never had the Seer's gift, not like Morgana and her prophetic dreams, but he did have a knack for sensing the outcome of a situation. Merlin's "funny feelings" had more often than not proved to be quite accurate. He had lost count of the number of times he had tried to warn Arthur of some danger based on gut instinct, only to be scoffed at, disregarded, and then ultimately proven right.

He had the same feeling now. Merlin, being a creature of magic, was constantly in tune to the ebb and flow and hum of the magic that powered the earth. He sense feel it in the air, the water, in his own body. Only very powerful magic could cause a disturbance large enough for him to feel it. There had been no such power in years. Magic had begun to die out as time went on, and Merlin sometimes felt that he was the only magic-user left in the world. He not met another of his kind since the 19th century.

But what could have caused a shift of the size he had felt last night? A small voice in the back of Merlin's mind hoped that this could be it, maybe it was time, maybe Arthur…no. He could not afford that hope, only to have it shattered later, like it had been so many times before. Arthur had not come when Camelot fell. He had not come for either of the World Wars, when Merlin was sure humanity was at its lowest. Why was now any different?

Merlin resumed his trash collecting, putting his dark thoughts to rest. By nightfall he had made a complete circuit of the lake and filled an entire garbage bag. It saddened him how people of this age did not respect nature in any of its forms. They cut down trees to build neighborhoods and then named the streets after them. They dropped their refuse whenever and wherever they wished. Didn't they realize that this was the only planet they had, and once it was ruined, it was ruined forever? Merlin knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as a do-over.

He made his way back inside and washed up. If there was one thing he did appreciate about the modern age, it was the miracle of indoor plumbing. Hecate greeted him warmly, twining around his legs and brushing her face up against his knee. She behaved as if she hadn't seen him in three days, instead of three hours. Merlin brought out a cutting board and a kitchen knife, along with some carrots and celery, and began preparing dinner. He was in the mood for a nice, hot soup after his hours spent in the cold.

He chopped along happily, humming a bit to himself as he worked. His mind wandered blissfully, all his thoughts of last night forgotten.

_Merlin…Merlin…_

The knife slipped, slicing a red line across Merlin's thumb. He froze as blood seeped from the cut and dripped onto the cutting board. Someone had spoken in his mind. They had called his name. The voice had almost sounded like Kilgarrah's…but he was dead, he had been dead almost as long as Arthur. Merlin concluded that he must have imagined the voice as a throb of pain from his hand brought him crashing back to reality.

Merlin quickly muttered a healing spell and the cut closed up, leaving behind only a thin white line. Merlin had mastered the art of healing, a branch of magic that had been his bane in Camelot but one that he had finally improved with years and years of practice. He cleaned up the blood and continued his preparations for dinner, dumping the vegetables into a large pot. He added chicken, broth, and spices and set the pot on the burner, putting a spell on the flames to help it heat faster. He was hungry and was not opposed to using magic to aid in menial tasks; something Gaius had scolded him for in Camelot.

Merlin leaned heavily against the counter and let out a trembling breath. The phantom voice inside his head had shaken him badly. Was finally losing his mind? Eons spent alone were definitely not good for one's mental health. And it was so much worse that the voice had sounded like Kilgarrah's. Merlin had felt his loss almost as deeply as Arthur's. Merlin knew it was because of the special bond that existed between dragon and Dragonlord, a bond that Merlin and Kilgarrah had shared even from the very first moment of their meeting, even before Merlin had inherited his Dragonlord powers. And then there was Aithusa.

During the battle at Camlann, Merlin had ordered Aithusa away. He had found her eventually, hiding up in the mountains in Kilgarrah's old cave. They had been friends for a time, Merlin healing her disabilities and even teaching her to talk. They traveled the world together, helping each other bear the loneliness that came with being the last of their kind. But she too had died. Dragons, no matter how powerful, are not immortal.

Now Merlin missed both of them terribly, the pain from their losses renewed. He thought he had forced those feelings away, in a dark corner of his heart where they could not haunt him. But hearing the voice of his long-dead dragon had reopened the wounds; it was almost too much to bear.

Close to tears now, Merlin shook himself and straightened up. He shoved his pain aside, but he could tell that it was still there. He poured himself a bowl of the now-steaming soup. Maybe food would make him feel better.

As he ate, he flipped through the newspaper. That little spark of hope had shoved its way into his head through the wall of pain. It whispered that maybe he hadn't imagined the voice, that it really was Kilgarrah trying to contact him and he should look through the paper to search for signs that now was the time and they were all coming back. Merlin imagined taking a flyswatter and squishing that little voice against the wall.

There was nothing new or distinctive in the paper that evening. The pages were filled with the usual violence, corporate greed, pointless editorials, scandals, and wars. Merlin threw it away in disgust. It was too early to sleep (though Merlin doubted that he would be getting any sleep tonight anyway) so after he cleaned up the kitchen, Merlin went upstairs to his library.

The library was enormous. It had to be, to contain almost 2,000 years of information. The shelves were so high Merlin had to have rolling ladders along them in order to reach the books at the very top. There was a large squashy armchair in one corner and various tables, lamps, and other chairs scattered about the room. Large windows looked over the lake and were hung with thick tapestry-like curtains that reminded Merlin of the ones that had graced the walls of the Castle.

The books were sorted by subject and each subject in chronological order by publishing date. It was fascinating how knowledge had evolved and changed through time. Tonight Merlin made his way over to the literature section and pulled down an old favorite: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_.

Though apparently a children's book, Merlin found nothing childish about Harry Potter. His copies of the seven books had been read to death, their corners bent and their covers nearly ripped off. Merlin loved their lessons of courage, friendship, and bravery, and he chuckled every time his own name was invoked as an expletive, most often by the fiery Ron Weasely. The seventh installment in the series spoke to him especially with its themes of sacrifice for one's friends and all the symbolic deaths throughout the story, but tonight he chose the first book, which was to him the happiest of the seven.

Merlin settled himself in the soft armchair and opened the book. But before he could even begin the first line, he was startled by a loud ringing noise. He was so surprised that it was a minute before he even recognized the noise as his own doorbell. But who in the world could it be? His house was warded against mortals. He had no friends who would be coming to call. Maybe the spells had worn off. He hadn't reinforced them in a while. The bell rang again. Grumbling about meddlesome teenagers and their deviant doorbell-ringing pastimes Merlin shut his book and started down the stairs. Why couldn't he be left alone?

He marched into the entrance hall and flung open the door, ready to give an earful to the teenagers who had rung his bell as a prank. But there were no teenagers standing on his porch.

Instead, an old man in a faded black-leather coat and a brown tweed scarf stood there, hunched against the cold. His white hair rose in a sort of peak on his head and he sported a bushy white mustache and goatee. His face was lined and wrinkled, but his eyes were what caught Merlin's attention. They were deep gold, the same color Merlin's turned when he performed magic, and they looked old, much older than they should have been, and wise.

Merlin stood there, his mouth open in a shout, but his angry words had fled him. Those eyes looked so familiar…

At the sight of Merlin, the old man's mouth turned up in a warm smile.

"Hello, young Warlock."


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry guys. I got a little distracted by my other story **_**A Constant Companion**_**. Now, to resolve last chapter's cliffhanger! By the way, some of you are very good guessers. **

"_Hello, young Warlock."_

Merlin felt his body turn to ice. That voice. Those eyes. There was only one explanation. But it was impossible. Surely this wasn't…

"Well don't just stand there, Merlin!" the old man barked, snapping Merlin out of his daze for a moment. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"K-Kilgarrah?" stuttered Merlin. His head was suddenly feeling very light. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, Merlin. It is, as you say, really me. Now, could you do us both a favor and let me in before I freeze to death?"

"Of course," replied Merlin weakly as he stepped aside to let Kilgarrah in. "But…but how?"

"Perhaps we should sit down before I explain everything. You look as though you're about to keel over," said Kilgarrah as he entered the house.

Merlin went to close the door, but found that his knees were shaking too badly to even take a step. Of all the things he had been expecting to happen today, the reincarnation of Kilgarrah was the absolute last thing he could have imagined. Why was he here? Why now? How did he even find him? And how in the world did he end up as a human? Merlin's thoughts chased themselves in circles in time with his racing heart.

Kilgarrah gripped Merlin's forearm tightly and led him to the couch. "Why don't I make us some tea?" suggested Kilgarrah as Merlin sat down heavily, putting his spinning head in his hands.

"Cabinet next to fridge, second shelf from the top," mumbled Merlin, but Kilgarrah was already in the kitchen.

Merlin didn't understand. Hundreds of years of waiting, and Kilgarrah just decided to pop up on his doorstep out of the blue. Merlin thought he was supposed to wait for Arthur, not his (formerly) scaly advisor.

Kilgarrah returned in no time with two steaming mugs of tea, and if Merlin caught a hint of whisky in his, he wasn't complaining. He needed to pull himself together.

"Now, young Warlock, I'm sure you have lots of questions," began Kilgarrah as he sat down opposite Merlin. "I will try to answer them to the best of my ability, but please, one at a time."

"You're Kilgarrah," said Merlin. It was more of a question than a statement.

"Yes, I believe that was already established."

"Prove it."

"You may ask me anything."

Merlin sipped his tea slowly, thinking. "What is the last thing that you ever said to me?"

"I told you that our story would live long in the minds of men."

"And so it has. Next question. How are you not a dragon?"

"The Fates decided to give me a less…noticeable appearance when they brought me back to this world. It is much easier to move about when one is not the size of a house. Alas, my true dragon form would attract much unwanted attention in this magic-less age, and the only attention I seek is yours. This form suits me quite nicely, don't you think?"

"Nice scarf," Merlin deadpanned. "Now, how did you find me? No one finds me unless I wish to be found."

"The bond between Dragon and Dragonlord is never truly broken, Merlin, not even by death. I sensed you from the moment I appeared in this world. I have been searching for you since last night, but you are remarkably difficult to find. The wards you erected were quite complex. Well done."

"Thanks," said Merlin drily. "One last thing: what in the name of Albion are you doing here? I was supposed to await the return of Arthur, not you. No offense."

"None taken, young Warlock. But don't you see? This is just the beginning. I am only here to help you prepare. You must be ready, for the return of the Once and Future King is at hand."

Merlin shook his head. He must have heard wrong. "Arthur's coming back?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Merlin. Your waiting is nearly over. The halves will be made whole, and the Golden Age of Albion will dawn."

Whatever strength Merlin had gained from the tea fled him once again. This was too good to be true. But it was. Kilgarrah had no reason to lie. After years and years of hoping, despairing, praying, cursing, _waiting_, this was really it. Merlin would no longer be alone. He would be reunited with his best friend at last.

His breathing grew faster. But was he ready to see Arthur again? There was so much that they hadn't had a chance to talk about, namely, Merlin's magic. Would Arthur accept him? Merlin would have to tell him everything. No secrets this time. Was he truly ready for that? For Arthur to know about all of the lies, all the people he'd killed, all the people he'd lost? His vision was filling with white fog and he could faintly hear a voice calling his name. That voice seemed important, but Merlin couldn't remember why. All he could think was that Arthur was coming back. Arthur was coming back. Arthur was coming. Arthur. Arthur…

And with that, his body went limp and his mug slipped from his fingers. The last sound he heard before sinking into oblivion was the crash of breaking china.

**I know, I know. It's short. I'll try to make up for it in later chapters. And I just can't resist cliffhangers, so get used to them. Please review!**


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